Texting a Ghost
by DatWinchesterPlaid
Summary: The pain, the depression, and heart-crushing guilt wrap around him like an anchor and he sinks down into the darkness. Trigger warning(s): Suicide attempt


His therapist says it's an unhealthy habit he should break.

Tells John that he should move on.

Forget Sherlock and meet new people.

After that session he may or may not have told her to fuck off.

She doesn't understand.

John can't move on, he can't just _forget _Sherlock.

The man is, _was_, brilliant.

Fuck, he was more than brilliant. He is-, _was,_ the reason John didn't put a bloody bullet in his brain after coming home from war.

_(Sherlock made him feel important. When he was with Sherlock, he didn't feel like a soldier. Didn't feel like the little boy that hid under the bed when his father came home drunk. Sherlock made him feel like John Watson again. Now that he's gone, John isn't sure who he is anymore.) _

He loves, fuck _loved_, Sherlock.

John feels off kilter without being by Sherlock's side. He feels dizzy and sick to his stomach.

The other day he went shopping and called Sherlock to ask if he needed anything from the store. When he got voice mail he was violently reminded of reality and had a panic attack.

Damn police had to call Mycroft to escort him back home.

It was a quiet ride back to 221B.

Mycroft let John grieve and John pretended that he didn't see Mycroft's wet cheeks.

He doesn't know if they're friends or not. Mycroft is still a prick but know they have something in common; they both loved Sherlock.

The first time he texted Sherlock, he was absolutely smashed.

_(The week after Sherlock's death, John drank. It was only when he looked in the mirror and saw his father, Harry, staring back at him that he snapped out of it. He broke on the bathroom floor and got rid of all the alcohol. He'll be damned if he becomes his father.) _

When he woke up and looked at his phone, he broke.

_(It seems that's all he's doing these days, breaking over and over again. Trying to put himself back together and then breaking again when he remembers Sherlock was his glue, the last piece to the puzzle.)_

But texting Sherlock comforts him. He knows that Sherlock will never reply and that makes it bittersweet, but it's become a coping mechanism.

It makes John feel like things are normal.

That Sherlock's just on a case, a really important one, and can't answer his texts.

And so, John started texting a ghost.

A memory that was burned into his heart, his mind.

**Fuck you. JW**

It's one of his really bad days.

The days where he stayed up until dawn and refused to eat anything.

He gets impossibly angry about Sherlock's death on these days, will calmly walk into the kitchen, take out all the dishes and throw them at the wall.

He'll pick up the shards of china and crush them in his hands, desperately trying to feel something other than anger.

It never works of course and he'll stare blankly at his bleeding hands before his doctor instincts kicked in and he'd rush to the bathroom to get the glass out and bandage his hands up.

**Fucking fuck you, Sherlock. I miss you and you're not here and the damn dishes are broken and fuck, come back. JW**

He'll wait morosely for any sign that Sherlock survived the fall and when he doesn't get one, he'll clench his jaw and take a shower.

A steaming hot one that pounds on his skin until it's an angry red and he can't dry himself off with a towel because it hurts too much.

He tries to cleanse himself of Sherlock, let the water wash away any memories concerning the detective so he can be a blank slate again.

So he doesn't have to feel anything.

**I don't even care about you anymore. I've moved on. JW**

He sends this text thousands and thousands of times, desperately trying to convince himself that this is true.

It never works because Sherlock's always in his dreams.

**I love you. JW**

He doesn't like to think about these days.

Tries to forget they ever existed because it's when he feels_everything. _The pain, the depression, and heart-crushing guilt wrap around him like an anchor and he sinks down into the darkness.

He sleeps in until noon and stays in bed until midnight.

Crying doesn't describe what he does.

Too simple of a word, really.

He sobs until he's gasping for air, tightening his grip on the blankets to steady himself. He'll mumble Sherlock's name under his breath like a mantra before rising in volume until he ends up screaming the detective's name.

The screams become less discernible as he starts sobbing again and he'll lie there on the bed, gasping for air and unable to see through the tears.

**I miss you, Sherlock. I didn't tell you before, but I love you. I wish I could press rewind somehow. Fucking hell, I love you. I miss you. JW**

To John, there are two kinds of pain.

The sort of pain that makes you strong. Or useless sort of pain that's only suffering.

Well, ever since Sherlock died, John hasn't been able to stop feeling the useless pain.

It holds him hostage in bed, sobbing until he can't breathe and screaming until he can barley speak.

He'll slip in and out of feverish dreams, calling Sherlock's name, his voice echoing throughout the empty flat.

He cries more upon awakening and seeing that Sherlock isn't in bed next to him, isn't waking up John at three in the fucking morning to rambled about whatever experiment he was doing.

**Where are you? JW**

He sends this one over and over again, crying as he does because he knows where Sherlock is.

He wants to go there, but something's stopping him.

John thinks it's the memories of Sherlock.

**Sometimes I worry that you didn't know how much I loved you. JW**

It's more than a worry.

It's a constant fear that nags at John.

It swallows him whole, making him question everything about his relationship with Sherlock.

Did Sherlock know he loved him? What if he didn't? What if that's why Sherlock killed himself? Did he think that John didn't love him? Is that why he left?

_I killed Sherlock. I killed Sherlock. I killed Sherlock. _

_IkilledSherlockIkilledSherlockIkilledSherlockIKILLEDSHERLOCK._

_I killed him._

These thoughts run through John's head and he'll stop crying, just close his eyes and let the pain and guilt cover him like a heavy blanket.

He deserves it, or so he thinks.

**I'm sorry. JW**

**I love you. JW**

**Fuck you. JW**

**I'm drunk and I miss you. JW**

**Mycroft called today. I thought it was you for a moment. JW**

**Everyone wants me to go back to the therapist. JW**

**I miss you. JW**

**I miss you. JW**

**I fucking miss you, you bloody bastard. JW**

**I'M SORRY DAMMIT, COME BACK ALREADY. JW**

**I threw every fucking thing in your room away. JW**

**I lied. Come back. JW**

**Your blood is on my hands. I can't wash it off. JW**

**Went to Mrs. Hudson's funeral today. Everyone dies. I don't really care. JW**

**She's haunting my dreams, just like you. JW**

**I'm starting to have hallucinations. JW**

**The hallucination are becoming more frequent and vivid. I miss you. JW**

**Heard the violin yesterday, broke down. JW**

**I'm still hallucinating. JW**

**I'm tired, Sherlock. I love you, but I'm tired. JW**

**Hello John. SH**

His phone rings not a minute later but he doesn't answer.

He's already tied the noose around his neck and jumped off the stool.

Jumped like Sherlock.

_Finally, we can be together. _


End file.
